LIBRARY 

OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GIKT    OK 


Received  .  .>/  gj^.+  ..,  1890.. 


.  .  .  ..,  . 

Accessions  No^t  ££>£*/-  Shelf  No.    &&^ 


<  O 


COPYRIGHT, 

1888, 
By   O.  M.   DUNHAM. 


Press  W.  L    Mershon  &  Co., 
Rahway,  N.  J. 


CONTENTS. 


MOTHER  CAREY'S  CHICKENS  ....          i 

SEA-BORN 4 

THE  NEOPHYTE        .......          7 

TRINITY  CHURCH 8 

GONE "   .        .        10 

AN  ICONOCLAST  .        .        ...        .        .11 

THEIR  DAYS  OF  WAITING  ARE  So  LONG      .        .        13 

THE  WILLOW  TREE  .15 

MALVERN  HILL 17 

THE  DAY-DREAM          ....!..    23 

IN  THE  MOONLIGHT 26 

BUTTERCUPS 30 

AUGUST       ...        ......        32 

WINTER'S  ADVENT 34 

CHIVALRIE 35 

J.  EDITH 36 

FAME 40 

PYGMALION  TO  APHRODITE 41 

ROLLIN       .        .        .       .       .        .    '    .        .        .        42 

To  MY  PIPE .        .44 

To  AN  AMATEUR  CORNETIST         ....       45 
Two  TURKEY-COCKS 48 


ii  •      CONTENTS. 

VIATICUM. 

ALMA  MATER 53 

VIATICUM 55 

JUAN    PONCE  DE   LEON    AND    BARTOLOME 

DE  LAS  CASAS        ......  65 

SONNETS. 

NATURE      . 77 

HELEN  OF  TROY 78 

LOVED  EVEN  YET 79 

AFTER  SICKNESS 8l 

A  YEAR 83 

EMERSON -84 

LONGFELLOW 86 

BRYANT  .                              88 

.        •        •  •        -89 


MOTHER  CAREY'S  CHICKENS 


NELSON    STANLEY    SPENCER 


MOTHER  CAREY'S  CHICKENS. 


|HEN  seas  were  calm,  and,  far  away, 
Blue   sky  and   dark   blue   water 

met, 
As  tranquil  as  the  day  wherein 

There  brooded  not  a  cloudy  threat, 
They  hung  o'er  ocean's  gently  heaving  breast, 
Flitting   with   languid   grace   from   crest  to 
crest. 


When  waves  uprearing  high  and  fierce 
Curved  stalwart  necks  in  wild  disdain, 

The  little  waifs  yet  onward  plied, 
Tangled  in  nets  of  flying  mane, 

Hoping,  perchance,  to  find  at  last  a  nest 

In  the  vague  distance   of    the   gray-bound 
West. 


2  MOTHER   CARETS   CHICKENS. 

And  when  the  quiet  night  came  down 

And  peace  had  quelled  the  tempest's  wrath, 

Still  by  the  stars  I  could  descry 

Those  patient  hearts  upon  our  path  ; 

They  may  have  seen  beneath  the  waters  dark 

The  lamps  that  sent  up  here  and  there  a  spark. 


I  mused  the  hours  away,  and  thoughts 

As  fugitive  and  sombre-hued 
As  our  dear  faithful  followers, 

Rose  in  my  mind  —  a  pensive  brood. 
I  found  of  life  a  stern  epitome 
In  these  staunch  children  of  the  air  and  sea. 


On  restless  pinions  fluttering, 
Impelled  by  genius  of  the  age, 

Neath  skies'  impenetrable  gray, 

O'er  billows'  black  and  wildering  rage, 

We  are  mere  storm-waifs  hoping  to  divine 

A  shore  that  ever  proves  horizon-line. 


MOTHER   CAREY'S   CHICKENS.  3 

And  ever  foiled  and  ne'er  dismayed, 
We  strive  with  eager  sense  to  sound 

The  constant  riddle  of  the  years  — 
The  Infinite  that  hems  us  round 

Until  it  takes  us  to  itself.     One  morn 

The  sea-birds,  fading  into  blank,  were  gone. 


SEA-BORN. 


SEA-BORN. 

safe   seclusion    of  her    prairie 

home, 
Queen  of  a  bluff,  out-spoken  heart 

that  holds 

Her  wish  his  law,  and  of  a  red-cheeked  brood, 
Her  outward  life  is  trite  and  full  of  peace. 
But  oft  when  winds  run  billowing  through  the 

grain, 

Or  wail  at  night  like  frenzied  castaways, 
Unreal,  yet  how  vivid,  will  arouse 
Mem'ries  of  what  could   not   have   been   a 

dream  ; 

And  in  her  ears  a  longing  music  dwells, 
Like   murmur  of  the  conch,  that  seems  to 

breathe 
From  far  away  where  skies  are  gray  and  sad. 

Awaking  with  a  start  at  dead  of  night, 
When  rains  flee  hurrying  before  the  blast, 


SEA-BORN.  5 

And  beat  and  break  in  waves  upon  the  pane, 
Again  she  doth  live  over  awful  hours, 
Till  then  forgotten,  of  her  former  life. 
She  knows  that  voice  that  howls  among  the 

boughs, 

Long  ages  since  it  haunted  wonder-land. 
Before  her  heart  had  dreamed  of  the   All- 
Good, 
Or  the  first  vague  and  tremulous  thought  of 

God 

Unprompted  came  beneath  the  silent  stars, 
She  knew  there  was  an  Evil  One  whose  voice 
Shrieked  hideous  through  far  abysms  of  space, 
Who  did  inhabit  darkness  as  the  birds 
White-winged  dwelt  upon  the  noonday  air. 

The  green  wheat  sinks  and  rises  at  her  feet, 
She  gazes  o'er  the  pulse  of  silent  waves 
And  it  doth  seem  but  yesterday  —  anon 
It  seems  unreckonable  years  agone, 
When  she  would  look  o'er  leagues  of  gentle 

surge 
And  listen  to  its  crooning  lullaby. 


SEA-BORN. 

Those  magic,  yearning  voices  haunt  her  life  ; 
She  must  have  lived  from  all  eternity  ; 
Before  the  world  became  what  now  it  is 
Those  were  the  sounds  that  ever  filled  her 

ears. 

And  quenchless  as  the  rhythmic  monotone 
That  still  flows  on  and  on  within  her  mind, 
Life  will  stretch  out  beyond  the  dim  unknown. 

She    kens    not  when  or   in    what  clime    her 

eyes 

Opened  upon  the  world.     She  never  felt 
A  father's  clasp  or  knew  a  mother's  voice. 
The  grim  and  garrulous  and  kind  old  sea 
Her  youth  did  rock,  as  in  a  mother's  arms, 
And  filled  for  aye  the  chambers  of  her  soul 
With    sounds   that  whisper   in    his    deepest 

caves, 


THE  NEOPHYTE. 


THE  NEOPHYTE. 

|N  fervent  clasp  his  youth's  ideal 

He  raises  o'er  the  tide  ; 
Across  the  deep  he  fain  would  bear 

it, 

And  reach  the  thither  side 
Still  holding  it  aloft,  in  sunlight  bathed, 
By  all  the  wildering  turbulence  unscathed. 

His  better  self !  will  he  preserve  it 

And  life's  long  turmoil  breast? 
Ah  !  he  who  bears  a  soul's  ideal 

Within  the  realms  of  rest 
Must  greatly  cope,  though  single-armed,  and 

saves 
A  treasure  from  the  hungry  maws  of  waves. 


TRINITY  CHURCH. 


TRINITY  CHURCH. 

|BOVE  the  haunts  where  Mammon- 
worshippers 
Madden  in  strife  for  Wall  Street's 

yellow  hoards, 

Doth  Trinity  in  tapering  silence  point 
Aloft,  to  show  the  earth  is  still  the  Lord's. 

Days  come  and  pass,  the  life-tide  ebbs  and 
flows, 

And  beats  about  its  base  with  tumult  rude; 
It  greets  alike,  with  calm  and  massive  peace, 

The  restful  night,  the  seething  multitude. 

Below  are  tablets,  weather-worn  and  quaint, 
Marking  what  once  were  graves,  in  other 

times  ; 
The  mounds  have  long  been  leveled,  and  the 

men 

Are   gone    where    go  the    softly   distant 
chimes. 


TRINITY  CHURCH.  9 

Between  three  worlds  —  the  silent  world  be 
neath, 
The  world  above  the  sod  where  discords 

dwell, 
The  world  on  high   where  franchised  spirits 

are  — 
Stands  Trinity,  a  carven  sentinel. 

It  rises  from  the  graves  to  mount  beyond 
This  realm  of  earthy  aims  and   groveling 

sins, 

Higher  it  pierces  —  in  that  tranquil  blue, 
Somewhere  above,  Earth  ends  and  Heaven 
begins. 


io  GONE. 


GONE. 

| EAR    it   away,  earth's    crumbling 

heritage  ! 
Yet  tenderly,  for  where  he  once 

made  stay, 
And  told  the  hours  of  Time's  disquiet  stage, 

To  our  bereft  hearts  still  is  sacred  clay. 
This  we  have  cherished,  this  could  him  en 
cage  ; 

Not  earth's  blue  dome  can   shut  him  in  to 
day. 


AN  ICONOCLAST.  n 


AN  ICONOCLAST. 

|HIS  day  I  have  cast  all  my  statues 

low, 
My  idol   men,  empedestaled   and 

grouped  — 

The  nowaday  Olympus  of  the  mind. 
They  were  my  dreams'  ideals  brought  to  life, 
And  I  have  found  them  flesh  and  fallible. 

O    Thou   whom    craving  man  has  toiled  to 

house 

'Neath  dome  and  arch,  in  formula  and  creed, 
And  hoped  to  reach  through  wine-drenched 

.  hecatombs, 

And  Druid  incantation,  and  the  march 
Of  priestly  state  and  choruses  of  praise, 
Resounding  like  the  forest  racked  with  wind  ! 
Thou  whom  through  twilight  that  ne'er  grows 

to  day 
We  seek,  whose  glory  would  our  vision  blast 


12  AN  ICONOCLAST. 

Could  we  behold  !     O  Thou  to  whom  the  soul 
Instinctive  leaps  as  vainly  ardorous 
As  flame-tongues  for  the  sky  ! 

Grant  me  a  peace  — 

Me,  the  bereft,  but  wiser  grown  than  erst, 
Bowing  to  forms  where  guiled   and  yearning 

youth 

Beheld  the  likeness  of  the  Time-old  Quest  — 
Give  patient  resignation  to  await. 


DAYS   OF    WAITING.  13 


THEIR  DAYS  OF    WAITING   ARE    SO 
LONG. 

[HEIR  days   of    waiting  were    so 

long,  so  long  !  — 
Greeting  with  smiles   that  over 
brimmed  in  tears  ; 
Parting  for  sluggard  months  —  but  hope  was 

strong 

To  draw  a  solace  from  the  coming  years. 
And  o'er  the  barren  hours,  their  life  to  be 
Hover'd    in  blissful   dreams  by  night  and 

day, 
As,  in  mid-azure  o'er  the  sleeping  sea, 

The  wizard  dreams  of  glad  lands  far  away. 
But  days  of  waiting  were  so  long  ! 

Their  time  of  living  was  so  short,  so  short !  — 
A  twelvemonth  of  unrippled  heart-content. 

The  long  past  faded  and  they  took  no  thought 
Of  morrow  hid  where  blue  horizon  bent. 


1 4  DA  YS   OF    WAI 7  ING. 

If  they  had  asked  aught,  they  would  have 

prayed 

Only  to  drift  for  aye,  unchanging,  blest, 
Nor  dreamed  they  on  that  Heaven  could  in 
vade 

A  cloud  to  mar  the  bliss  of  perfect  rest. 
Their  time  of  living  was  so  short  ! 

Their  days  of  waiting  are  so  long,  so  long  '.— 

For  she  was  summoned,  smiling  through 

her  tears, 
And  he  is  desolate  —  but  hope  is  strong 

To  draw  a  solace  from  eternal  years. 
No  cloud  their  blissful  greeting  may  invade 

Upon    the  quay    of  gold   by    pearl-strewn 

sands  ; 
The  long  past  shall  anew  dissolve  and  fade 

In  silent  kiss  and  clasp  of  wistful  hands. 
But  days  of  waiting  are  so  long  ! 


THE    IV I L LOW    TREE. 


THE  WILLOW  TREE. 

IELLOW  TREE,  o  wuiow  Tree, 

Why  cast  down  so  utterly  ? 

Earth's  heart    freed  from    frosty 

rest 

Beats  beneath  her  grassy  breast, 
And  the  warm  blood  of  her  veins 
To  thy  topmost  limb  attains  ; 
Sky  is  blue  with  June  —  the  sun 
Thrills  each  other  leafy  one. 
Sunlight  chiding  shunneth  thee, 
Willow  Tree,  O  Willow  Tree  ! 

Willow  Tree,  O  Willow  Tree, 
Thine  is  silent  threnody. 
Speechless  motion  of  thy  leaves 
On  the  grass  a  darkness  weaves. 
Men  are  dreamers  of  a  dream, 
Life  is  myth,  and  fate  supreme, 
Earth  a  mound-scarred  tomb  to  thee, 
Willow  Tree,  O  Willow  Tree  ! 


1 6  THE    WILLOW    TREE. 

Willow  Tree,  O  Willow  Tree, 
I  inhale  thy  sympathy.. 
I  did  lay  a  loved  form  low 
'Neath  the  frozen  turf  and  snow. 
Lids  like  fringed  petals  drew 
Close  for  aye  o'er  hearts  of  blue. 
Smiles  that  lit  her  latest  breath 
Lingered  on  in  waxen  death. 
I  became  like  unto  thee, 
Willow  Tree,  O  Willow  Tree  ! 

Willow  Tree,  O  Willow  Tree, 
Peace  to  futile  elegy  ! 
Winter's  day  of  anguish  done, 
Sky  is  blue  with  June  —  the  sun 
Brings  new  blossoms  where  the  blast 
Rent  the  dead  leaves  of  the  past. 
June  doth  stir  my  sluggish  blood, 
Life  again  with  hopes  shall  bud  ; 
All  my  grief  I  bury  deep 
In  thy  drooping  sunless  sleep. 

Alas,  I. shall  come  oft  to  thee, 
Willow  Tree,  O  Willow  Tree  ! 


MALVERN  HILL. 


MALVERN   HILL. 
(THE  SECOND  MORNING  AFTER  THE  BATTLE.) 

[HE   gray!  you  wear  the  gray?     I 

was  struck  down 
When  gray-coats  broke  retreating 

from  the  field  ; 

The  bugles  and  the  yells  were  in  my  ears 
When  sudden  darkness    fell    too    quick  for 

pain. 
And  when,  through  nightmare  of  my  whole 

past  life, 

I  faltered  back  to  self  the  air  was  still, 
Day  like  a  murky  twilight  filled  the  sky, 
Dimly  I  saw  the  bodies  piled  and  felt 
Their  blood  in  streams — I  know  it  was  the 

rain 

That  flooded  the  ravine  —  but  then  it  seemed 
Those  mangled  flesh-heaps  with  exhaustless 
veins 


18  MALVRRN  HILL. 

Were    bleeding,   bleeding,  drowning    me    in 

blood. 
I  should  have  drowned  here  but  for  frenzied 

strength 
To    prop    my  shoulders    on    this    neighbor 

slain  ; 

I  swooned,  the  flood  subsided  ere  I  roused 
And  I  have  lain  all  night  again  till  now. 

Thank  you  !  you  have  a  heart  beneath  your 

gray  ; 

The  brandy  fills  me  with  a  life  of  flame. 
I  smell  the  orchard  perfumes  that  would  steal 
Each  morning  through  my  window  as  I  woke. 
And  hark  !  my  redbreast's  anthem  !  God  is 

good, 

Upon  a  lost  field  dying  'mid  the  dead, 
The  bird  I  love,  a  robin,  not  a  vulture  ! 

No,  do  not  raise  me  up,  I  need  my  strength  ; 
The  end  is  near,  my  feet  are  numb  and  cold, 
Up-creeping  death  will  soon  engulf  my  heart, 
And  I  would  speak  with  you  before  I  go. 
I  did  intend  to  die  with  breast  unlocked 


MALVERN  HILL.  19 

And   not  leave    e'en  to  God  the    means  on 

earth 

To  set  my  memory  aright  with  her 
Who  was  my  conscience,  but  alas  the  world 
Takes  hues  through  glaze  of  death  it  never 

wore  ; 

The  silence  that  was  duty  during  life, 
Were  at  the  grave's  brink  treachery  to  self. 
I  place  my  vindication  in  your  hands, 
Then   lay  me    in   that  trench    the    rain  has 

washed. 

She  was  my  conscience  once,  my  purer  self, 

I  grew  to  measure  all  things  by  the  test 

Of  what  I  knew  her  judgment  would  decide. 

She  was  from  Carolina  and  had  passed 

Her    childhood    in   the    South  ;    but    I   had 

heard 

My  father  daily  at  the  family  prayer 
Call  down  on  Slavery  the  curse  of  God. 
Still  I  did  love  her  tenderly  and  kept 
A  prudent    tongue,    till  at    her    hearth    one 

night 


20  MALVERN   HILL. 

Her  brother,  reading  from  a  Southern  print, 
Detailed  with  smacks  of  lip  and  fiendish  glee 
The  story  of  a  captured  negro  flogged 
Nigh  unto  death,  and  branded  in  the  cheek 
Because  he  fled  for  liberty  and  failed. 
I   seemed  to   sniff  the  hemlock  scents  from 

home, 

I  was  my  father's  son,  I  spoke  for  him, 
And  with  the  pent-up  anger  of  a  year 
Denounced  the  infamy,  the  cherished  crime 
That  make  our  land  the  century's  stumbling- 
block — 

Forgive  me  if  I  wound  your  Southron  heart, 
Forgive  the  truth  from  one  about  to  die. 

Her  father   held   the  young  man  back  from 

blows, 

In  silence  I  was  suffered  to  depart, 
And  I  have  never  spoken  with  her  since. 
They  carried  her  to  Europe  for  her  health, 
I  followed,  but  they  left  no  trace  behind. 
I  tracked  misleading  rumors  to  their  source. 
Watched  journals  in  all  tongues  and  mixed 

with  crowds 


MALVERN   HILL.  21 

In  cities  of  all  lands.     I  know  not  how 
She  was  immured  that  not  a  word  or  sign 
Could  reach  me  in  my  agony  of  quest 
For  three  long  years  —  and  then  they  reap 
peared, 

She  was  a  wife  and  mother  —  I  have  learned 
That  they  had  won  her  from  me  by  a  lie  ; 
I  could  not  blame  her  that  she  did  believe, 
For  she  was  taught  from  infancy  to  think 
An  Abolitionist  was  all  things  vile. 
A  wicked  story  of  unfaithfulness  ! 
They  said  I  was  unfaithful  though  betrothed. 

And  then  my  abnegation  long  began. 

I  saw  her  one  night  through  an. opera-glass, 

The  ghost  of  her  old  smile  would   rouse  at 

times 

.At  witty  flashes  in  the  comedy  ; 
But  O  !  the  wearied  sadness  of  that  face, 
The  look  of  having  yet  so  many  years 
To  worry  out  before  the  end  would  come  ! 
Naught    could    undo  the    past,   I    held  my 

peace. 
The  only  hope  of  happiness  for  her 


22  MALVERN  HILL. 

Was  still  to  think  that  I  had  been  untrue, 
And  build  within  the  future  of  her  child 
A  new  life  on  the  ruins  of  her  youth. 
And  I  did  love  her  well  enough  to  guard 
The  torturing  secret  of  my  innocence, 
And  thought  to  hide  it  with  me  in  the  grave. 
But  O  !  I  can  not  wander  forth  like  one 
Unshrived,  still  foul  to  her  and  unforgiven. 
Do  me  the  tardy  justice  of  the  truth. 
He  may  not  be  a  sharer  in  the  lie, 
Her  husband  —  and  when  I  am  gone,  her  life 
May  flow  on  peacefully  if  she  know  all  ; 
Aye,  happier,  perchance,  when  she  can  think 
That  this  unquiet  heart  has  reached  repose. 
My  new,  last  friend,  if  you  will  seek  her  out, 
Say  that  I  loved  her  tenderly  till  now, 
Tell  her  it  was  a  loathsome,  cruel  lie, 
Tell  her  — 

no  brandy  now  —  bend  close  your 
ear  — 

She  lived  in  Petersburg — a  colonel's  wife  - 
Her  name  — 


THE  DA  Y- DREAM.  23 


THE   DAY-DREAM. 

E  had  gone  when  the  land  was  pining 
'Neath  Autumn's  relentless  blight ; 
When  forests    that    whispered    fore 
bodings 
Were  painted  with  hectic  light. 

The  desolate  earth  was  mourning 
As  only  a  stricken  one  grieves  ; 

And  the  joy  of  two  hearts  was  buried 
For  a  season  'neath  fallen  leaves. 

He  had  folded  her  close  to  his  bosom, 
And  pressed  on  her  lips  a  farewell  ; 

He  had  gone  —  and  a  loneness  utter 
On  her  path  like  a  darkness  fell. 

But  oft  in  the  lapse  of  a  day-dream, 
Thought's  mazy  wings  were  unfurled, 

To  hover  in  azure  and  sunshine 
Beyond  the  gray  rim  of  the  world. 

TY; 


24  THE  DA  Y- DREAM. 

And  once  when  the  spell  had  gathered 

Her  wearied  senses  about, 
And  opened  the  dream-world  within  her, 

And  silenced  the  world  without, 

Again  did  the  land  seem  barren 
And  bare  save  for  drifted  leaves, 

But  apples  hung  low  on  the  branches, 
And  garners  were  piled  with  sheaves. 

Again  o'er  the  hills  they  wandered, 
And  lingered  in  woodland  nooks, 

Or  followed  the  wayward  windings 
Of  sluggish  and  leaf-strewn  brooks. 

From  yellow  expanses  of  stubble 
Came  the  cheery  whistle  of  quail, 

And,  through  air  of  opiate  purple, 
The  muffled  beat  of  the  flail. 

Again  'neath  the  trees  he  kissed  her  — 
The  trance  is  dissolved  by  a  gleam 

Of  light  that  illumines  her  being - 
Was  that  but  the  kiss  of  a  dream  ? 


THE  DA  Y- ORE  AM.  25 

The  dream  is  alive  with  a  presence 
That  close  by  her  side  remains, 

As  she  passes  the  mystic  confines, 
And  the  portals  of  Sense  regains, 

And  feels  tender  arms  about  her. — 
Her  eyes  that  are  freed  from  the  spell 

In  life-land  behold,  as  in  dream-land, 
The  face  that  she  loves  so  well. 


26  IN   THE  MOONLIGHT. 


IN    THE    MOONLIGHT. 

|HE  moon  from  Heaven  was  stretch 

ing 

A  wand  of  magic  afar  ; 
Its  shadow  fell  in  the  river, 
A  wavering  silver  bar  ; 
And  from  it  a  weird  enchantment 

Dropped  like  impalpable  rain, 
On  a  world  that  by  eerie  beauty 

Was  chastened  from  care  and  stain. 

My  darling  sat  by  the  window. 

Enshrined  in  the  tender  light, 
It  was  just  a  month  since  our  bridal, 

And  just  such  another  night. 
We  saw  on  the  lawn  beneath  us, 

In  the  arbor  this  side  the  pines, 
Two  forms  whose  outlines  were  muffled 

By  the  trellised  curtain  of  vines. 


IN  THE  MOONLIGHT.  27 

A  smile  leaped  forth  from  the  hidden 

Blue  depths  of  two  quiet  eyes, 
A  face  with  sweet  mirth  suffusing  : 

My  lady  was  earnestly  wise  : 
In  course  of  our  love-dream  above  stairs 

She  had  watched  another  below, 
And  thought  she  beheld   in   the  moonlight 

A  romance  of  the  broom  and  hoe. 

Without  a  word  we  descended 

For  a  frolic  upon  the  lawn, 
Hoping  only  that  stealthy  footsteps 

Would  not  of  our  coming  forewarn. 
In  the  spell  of  the  vision  unfolding 

For  a  moment  we  stood  at  gaze  ; 
The  river  wound  far  where  the  distance 

Was  gauzed  with  a  silver  haze  ; 
And  all  the  air  was  a  glamour 

Upon  the  mute  landscape  hung  ; 
And  earth  was  a  pictured  legend. 

And  life  a  poem  unsung. 

We  stole  out  within  the  shadow, 
Then  paused,  as  if  turned  to  stone, 


28  nv  THE  MOONLIGHT, 

We  eaves-droppers  scared  but  shameless 
At  sound  of  a  voice  well  known. 


You  have  known  my  past  and  its  sorrow, 

Have  stood  by  the  grave  of  my  youth. 
I  loved  you  at  first  for  the  reason 

T/iat  we  both  loved  her  who  is  gone, 
And  si-ffered  together  in  silence 

When  joy  and  hope  vanished  from  earth. 
Your  help  and  your  solace  full-hearted 

Through  changing  years  grow  more  dear, 
And  life's  little  remnant  I  offer 

With  devotion  and  perfect  trust. 


O,  my  grave  and  taciturn  father ! 

O,  gentle,  beloved  aunt  ! 
Ye  had  plotted  in  closest  secret 

The  primmest  romance  extant. 
But  while  we  dovelets  of  twenty 

Indoors  were  content  to  coo, 
Ye  must  needs,  ensconced  in  the  arbor, 

Make  love  'mid  moonlight  and  dew. 


LV    T1IK   MOONLIGHT.  29 

And  love  from  the  land  immortal 
Enwrapped  human  hearts  below, 

As  purely  as  moonlight  that  folded 
The  earth  in  a  dream  of  snow. 


BUTTERCUPS. 


BUTTERCUPS. 

llVE   me  the  secret  of  life  universal: 
How  does  the  earth,  like  a  poet's 

ripe  brain, 

Bring  forth  the  fruitage  of  fact  and  of  fancy- 
Oak-trees  and  buttercups  over  the  plain  ? 

Whence  the  mysterious  instinct  that  broodeth, 

Silent,  immortal,  through  torpor  and  cold, 

Till  the  sun  tempts  one  more  summer,  green- 

bladed, 

Forth  from  the  tomb  of  the  years  in  the 
mold  ? 

Thus  could    I  stand  with  my   questions  till 

doomsday, 
You,  my  sweet   flowers,  are  heedless   and 

mute  : 
Yes  —  though  perchance  the  great  All-soul  of 

nature 
Bides  just  beneath  in  the  soil  at  your  root. 


BUTTERCUPS.  31 

But  I'm  beginning  to  moralize  gravely, 
Touching  on  themes  that  sage  heads  have 
perplext  ; 

Here  will   I  pause  —  you  are  my  inspiration, 
You  the  whole  sermon  as  well  as  the  text. 

Yours  unalloyed  is  the  gladness  of  being  : 
Tremble   with    rapture   and    spill    on  the 
ground 

Sunshine  by  thimblefuls  —  each  little  chalice 
Lavish  the  infinite  joy  it  has  found. 

Then,  as  the  winds  in  the  distance  awaken, 
Scattering  fragrance  abroad  as  they  pass 

Shallops  on  breast  of  the  meadow  at  anchor 

Ride  the  green,  languorous  billows  of  grass. 

Little  it  matters  what  fate  is  ordaining  ; 

Children  may  wantonly  pluck  you  in  play  ; 
Your  fleeting  span  has  been  amply  sufficient  ; 

You  have  been  beautiful  for  a  whole  day. 


32  AUGUST. 


AUGUST. 


|T  was  one  of  those  August  days 
When,  spiritualized  by  haze, 
The  air  is  purple  revery. 

The  hills  were  a  blur  of  deeper  blue 

Like  the  horizon-line  at  sea. 

The  breeze  that  would  fitfully  arouse 

Had  been  a-haying  in  the  mows. 

Bent  and  shrunken  the  sallow  maize 

Like  sapless  graybeards  gone  a-craze. 

Over  the  brook  the  leaves  of  a  beech 

Like  parched  tongues  lolled  down, 

To  water  gurgling  just  out  of  reach 

O'er  pebbles  musical  and  brown  : 

The  lazy  brook  was  wider  awake 

Than  men  and  women  or  birds  and  boughs  ; 

It  glided  between  the  patient  cows 

That  stood  in  tranquil,  meek-eyed  drowse. 


A  UGUST.  33 

And  sprent  the  air  with  motes  of  spray 
Lashing  the  droning  flies  away. 


11. 


Then  there  glittered  a  fire-fly  spark, 

The  trees  were  losing  themselves  in  the  dark 

That  gathered  the  fading  West  in  a  cowl. 

From  far  came  the  curdling  hoot  of  an  owl. 

A  shrill  dispute  of  katy-dids  ; 

The  stars  were  waking  with  blinking  lids  ; 

A  bat  skated  past  in  erratic  flight  ; 

The  haze  was  a  fog  of  murky  light. 

In  the  East,  that  would  be  murkier  soon, 

The  crescent  tip  of  a  blood-red  moon. 


34  WINTER'S  ADVENT. 


WINTER'S    ADVENT. 

winds  like  heralding  furies, 
From  his  realm  of  night  in  the 

north, 

From  strongholds  encastled  with  icebergs, 
The  Winter  came  suddenly  forth. 

And  when  the  winds  for  a  respite 

Shrank  back  and  were  still  in  their  lair, 

The  sky  was  o'er-cast  and  leaden, 
And  brooded  in  sullen  despair. 

But  gently  and  slowly  from  cloud-land 
Came  fragments  of  diamond  glint, 

Star-flakes,  heaven-coined,  still  retaining 
The  beauty  and  stamp  of  the  mint. 

Then  myriads  scurrying  downward 

Enfolded  the  barren  dearth  ; 
And  the  dark  under-lining  of  Heaven 

Became  the  white  carpet  of  earth. 


CHIVALRIE.  35 


CHIVALRIE. 

|HAT,    little    Mabel!    reading   old 

romance  ? 
Come  here,  and   leave  that  dusty 

chimney-nook, 

And  do  put  by  that  antiquated  book  — 
I'll  show  you  all    you've  read   at  one  swift 

glance. 

The  sunlight  gilds  earth's  carpet  of  soft  snow, 
Behold  without  The  Field  of  Cloth  of  Gold  ! 
The  trees  are  knights  so  valiant,  tall,  and 

bold, 

Steel-clad  in  icicle-mail  from  top  to  toe  ; 
And  see  the  evergreens  upon  the  lawn- — 
Fair  ladies  who  will  never  lose  their  charms  ; 
Soon  will  the   wind   sound   loud  the   battle- 
horn  — 
There'll  be  a  tournament  with  clash  of  arms. 


36  /.  EDITH. 


J.   EDITH. 

HOU  wast    not    born  before  th 

time, 

For  thee  the  world  is  at  its  prime 
This  Eastlake  era  ;  day  of  pugs  ; 
Of  plush  screens  libelous  of  bugs  ; 
Of  tigers  prone  on  glossy  rugs, 
And  tapers  trim  in  brazen  sconce  ; 
This  comely  Queen  Anne  Renaissance  ! 
The  age  awaited  thee  serene, 
Self-poised  and  wise  and  just  sixteen. 

It  seems  nor  jest  nor  masquerade 
When  thou  dost  don  the  stiff  brocade, 
The  gold-clocked  hose  and  yellow  lace, 
With  more  than  worthy  grandma's  grace. 
Think  what  poor  things  some  mortals  are 
Who  never  had  a  grandmama  ! 
And  she  who  spends  her  days  at  chores, 
Who  never  'broiders,  prinks  or  draws, 


/.   EDITH.  37 

And  seeks  at  night  hard,  welcome  cot  — 

The  tragedy  of  such  a  lot  ! 

Yet,  thy  patrician  ways  are  sweet, 

And  we  do  deem  it  not  unmeet, 

In  earnest  half,  and  half  in  sport, 

To  own  thy  sway  and  pay  thee  court. 

Thou  ne'er  didst  soberly  despise 

The  humblest  heart  'neath  homely  guise, 

Who,  raised  by  worth,  her  fate  above, 

Could  unembittered  toil  and  love. 

For  us  of  every  day,  thine  own, 

Thy  love  informs  each  look  and  tone  ; 

And  love  makes  glad  the  loyaltie 

That  faithful  vassals  bring  to  thee 

Of  dainty  port  and  tender  mien, 

Gracious  and  fond  at  just  sixteen. 

As  keen  as  poet's  rapture  thine  ! 
Life  is  a  cup  of  bliss  divine  ; 
Thou  canst  do  all  save  mount  and  fly 
For  deeper  draughts  of  sun  and  sky. 
Doffing  the  old,  thou  canst  forget 
Staid,  stately  steps  of  minuet, 


38  /.  ED2TJI. 

And  trip  a  gay,  impromptu  maze 
To  thine  own  blithely  warbled  lays. 
A  special  dialect  thou  hast ; 
And  honest,  English  words  recast 
By  those  arch,  saucy  lips  express 
All  shades  of  dire  coquettishness, 
Accompliced  by  demure,  gray  eyes 
Where  Merriment  in  ambush  lies, 
Anon  to  issue  and  retreat 
With  Fancy's  transformations  fleet  - 
Thy  moods  the  iridescent  sheen 
Of  teeming  joy  at  just  sixteen  ! 

I  would  not  bid  the  Future  ope, 

Or  seek  to  cast  the  horoscope. 

Old  Time  (who's  called  a  surly  one, 

But  has  a  grim,  sly  sense  of  fun,) 

May  some  day  try  to  palm  on  me 

A  portly  matron  form  as  thee. 

But,  climbing  to  the  garret's  height, 

In  dim,  not  irreligious  light, 

Mid  aged,  eyeless  tiger  rugs, 

And  screens  by  moth  bereft  of  bugs, 


y.  EDITH.  39 

And  ghosts  of  dead  and  buried  pugs, 
I  shall  behold  the  real  thee  ; 
Again  with  pensive  gladness  see 
This  age  incarnate   in  its  queen, 
Self-poised  and  wise  at  just  sixteen. 


4o  FAME. 


FAME. 

E  saw  it  on  the  moor-lands, 
Feebly  and  dimly  bright, 
Dancing,  luring,  fleeing, 
A  ghost  of  ruddy  light. 


He  followed,  all  forsaking  — 
Where  dank  marsh  flowers  wave 
O'er  death  that  lurks  beneath  them 
He  found  at  last  a  grave. 


PYGMALION    TO   APHRODITE  4* 


PYGMALION  TO   APHRODITE. 

ODDESS  fair  of  soft  desires, 
Thou  whose  spirit  is  love-laden, 
Kindle  passion's  waking  fires, 
Breathe  thyself  into  this  maiden. 

Love's  sweet  influence  round  her  moving, 
Love  her  soul  and  essence  giving, 
May  her  life  be  simply  loving, 
May  her  love  be  simply  living  ! 


4 2  ROLLIN. 


ROLLIN. 

ILKEN  fur  so  sleek  and  glossy, 
Satin  paws  and  velvet  ears, 
Breast  as  white  and  soft  as  sea- 
foam, 
Eyes — two  yellow,  jewelled  spheres  ! 

Facile  grace  that  takes  caresses 
As  his  birthright  and  his  due  ; 
Pure  aristocrat  that  never 
Aught  but  wealth  and  purple  knew  ! 

Sensuous  ease  in  air  and  posture, 
Eyes  half  closing  faintly  peep, 
Purr  as  gentle  as  the  breathing 
Of  a  maiden  lost  in  sleep  ! 


ROLLIN.  43 

Rollin  lies  before  me  dozing, 
On  his  head  a  sunbeam  plays, 
Has  not  seen  or  heard  the  stanzas 
I  have  written  in  his  praise. 


44  TO  MY  PIPE. 


TO   MY  PIPE. 

LIGHT  thee   and  conjure  sweet 

visions  in  smoke, 
Siren-shapes  forming  and  wreath. 

ing  in  play, 
Fairy-sea  rising  and  falling  in  waves, 
With  fragrance  of  spice  as  from  isles  far  away. 

Thou  hast  been  the  true  friend  of  my  studi 
ous  hours, 

Knowledge  came  with  thy  smoke  and  its 
eddying  grace, 

And  wisdom,  though  lingering,  came  too  at 
last, 

And  increased  as  the  color  grew  dark  on  thy 
face. 

And  whenever  the  world    seemeth  heartless 

and  rude, 

Thy  blue,  floating  fancies  my  solace  shall  be  : 
I'll  take  thee,  old  friend,  and  evoke  as  of  yore 
A  poem  between  the  world's  coldness  and  me. 


TO   AN  AMATEUR    CORNET1ST.          45 


TO  AN  AMATEUR   CORNETIST. 

i. 
[ANKIND    would   rend  thee    joint 

by  joint, 
Or  to   a    ling'ring   death    would 

cane  thee, 

Would  vote  thee  worse  than  Hunter's  Point, 
Arid  pray  the  Board  of  Health  to  bane  thee. 

When  first  thy  prelude  cleaves  the  night, 
Strong  men  on  bent  knees  quaking  tumble, 

Hearing  the  Last  Trump,  in  affright 
Await  the  End's  initial  rumble. 

Then  maddened  at  the  false  alarm, 
Helpless,  but  muttering  profanely, 

They  listen  while  through  even's  calm 
Float  trills  and  flourishes  ungainly. 


46       TO  AN  AMATEUR    CORNETIST. 

Oh  !  faint  not  !  Pour  thy  two  tunes  forth 
In  rapt  succession,  slumber  scorning, 

Till  heavy  eyes,  and  lips  that  froth, 
With  anger  greet  the  gray  of  morning. 


But  I  have  seen  your  kindred  grand 
On  pedestals  of  homage  posing 

(What  time  I  strayed  on  Coney's  strand), 
With  eager  crowds  around  them  closing. 

And  many  now  who  toss  and  groan, 
Before  the  brazen  calf  were  bending  ; 

O  !  choose  your  most  blood-curdling  tone, 
The  harsh  tornado's  roar  transcending  ! 

And  would  your  fellows  might  be  sown 
Broadcast  through  this  Philistine  city, 

With  lungs  of  iron,  hearts  of  stone, 
To  blast  till  daybreak,  dead  to  pity  ! 

That  men  may  run,  as  from  the  Fiend, 
At  sound  of  brass,  imploring  mercy  : 

And  human  nature  may  be  weaned 

From  thralldom  to  a  worse  than  Circe 


'JO  AN  AMATEUR    CORNETIST.        47 

A  fog-horn  soloist  who  blares 

With  turgid,  cork-screw  variations 

Your  self-same  two,  long-suff'ring  airs, 
And  struts  and  smirks  through  loud  ova 
tions. 

Then    blow  !     Through  trembling  midnight 
blow  ! 

In  Art's  true  service  you've  a  station. 
O,  friend,  build  better  than  you  know  ; 

Bring  on  your  craft  annihilation. 


48  TWO    TURKEY-COCKS. 


TWO  TURKEY-COCKS. 

N  sooth,  thou'rt  not  a  pretty  bird, 
Thy  plumage  lacketh  tints  and 

lustre, 

Why  wilt  thou  stand  with  tail  outspread  ? 
While     wondering    kindred     round     thee 
cluster  ? 

Yon  peacock  struts  by  Nature's  right, 
He  to  a  gorgeous  tail  is  pendant ; 

But  thou,  O  envious,  would-be  fop, 
Art  not  thus  caudally  resplendent  ! 

Although  thou'rt  sleek,  thy  beauty  ne'er 
Could  gain  the  candid  predilection  ;     . 

Thy  virtues  only  will  appear 

With  sauce  and  knife  and  fork  dissection. 

O  ponder  on  thy  certain  doom, 

And  strive  presumptuous  pride  to  govern  ! 
In  tragedy  thy  life  must  close, 

Think  of  the  gravy  and  the  oven. 


Tll'O    TURKEY-COCKS.  49 

Ah,  foolish,  discontented  one, 

That  seekest  with  thy  fate  to  quarrel  ! 
But,  turkey,  I've  a  human  friend, 

And  thou  for  him  wilt  point  a  moral. 

He  is  a  giant  round  the  waist, 

His  legs  are  pillars  short  and  bandy  ; 

A  Falstaff  's  form  and  ursine  grace, 
At  heart  a  Romeo  and  dandy. 

He  is  a  ponderous  gallant, 

And  cultivates  the  tender  passion  ; 
He  says  his  greatest  joy  in  life 

Is  but  to  hold  a  lady's  sash  on. 

His  mind  is  filled  with  genteel  lore, 
To  feed  society's  scandal-hunger  ; 

He  has  no  peer  in  social  art, 
He's  an  inspired  gossip-monger. 

And  yet  the  world  laughs  in  its  sleeve, 
Laughs  at  his  ardor,  his  dimensions, 

His  mincing,  elephantine  pace, 
His  rakish  manner  and  pretensions. 


50  TWO    TURKEY-COCKS. 

Ah,  sad  for  him,  he  must  compete 
With  rivals  younger  far  and  thinner  ! 

His  truest  forte  would  be  to  grace 
A  cannibal's  Thanksgiving  dinner. 


VIATICUM, 


ALMA    MATER.  53 


ALMA  MATER. 

LOVED  Alma  Mater,  thine  arms 

still  around  us 
Are   clasped   in  their   last    and 

their  fondest  embrace  ; 

We  sever  this  day  the  ties  that  have  bound  us 
While  blessings  beam  forth  from  thy  time- 
honored  face. 
We  know  not  the  future,  'tis  veiled  in   the 

shadow 

By  this  pensive  hour  of  sad  parting  cast  ; 
But  one  wish   we   have,  that  the  years  yet 

before  us 
May  be  but  as  happy  and  bright  as  the  past. 

Like  caravan  halting  equipped  for  the  jour 
ney, 

We  turn  a  last  look  on  the  joys  we  must 
leave, 

And  hope  that  the  blessing  vouchsafed  us  at 
morning 


54  ALMA   MATER. 

May  cheer  the  long  day  till  the  shadows  of 

eve  ; 

And  oft  as  we  toil  o'er  the  glare  of  the  sand- 
waste 
We'll  think  of  thy  love   so   enduring   and 

fond, 

That  follows  us  over  life's  hot,  arid  desert, 
Until   we  shall   reach  the  green   pastures 
beyond. 

Hand  clasped  in  hand  and  hearts  beating  one 

measure, 

Benisons  grateful  and  loving  we  breathe  ; 
Ever  around  this  pure  shrine  of  affection 
Chaplets   of    hallowed    remembrance    will 

wreathe. 
Here  would  we  pledge  in  the  strength  of  our 

manhood 

Ever  to  cherish  the  loves  of  the  past  ; 
Faithful  through  all  to  our  dear  Alma  Mater, 

True  to  ourselves  and  to  her  to  the  last. 
College  of  the  City  of  New  York,  1875. 


VIATICUM.  55 


VIATICUM. 

A  POEM  FOR  THE  TENTH   ANNIVERSARY  OF 
THE  CLASS  OF  1875  OF  THE  COLLEGE 
OF  THE  CITY  OF  NEW  YORK. 


was  in  the  days  that  we  fondly 

recall, 
When   the  section-book  held    us 

in  scholarly  thrall, 
When   "IDS"    were  the  prizes  of  life   in  our 

eyes, 
When  we  bolted  stale  learning  and  Chellborg's 

fresh  pies, 

When  we  revelled   in    lore    at    the   city's  ex 
pense, 

And  rang  the    drear  changes   on   case,  mood 
and  tense, 


56  VIA  TICUM. 

Ah,    then    Inspiration    was   lodged    in    our 

throats, 
Gushing  forth  in  our  song  like  the  dust  from 

old  coats. 
But  now,  times  have  altered — no  longer  our 

lives 
Are    set  unto    music,    but  trammelled    with 

gyves. 
The  hopes   and   the  fancies  that  gladdened 

life's  morn 
Have  flown  like  the  birds  when  the  summer 

is  gone, 
And  we  sternly  confront  the  long  seasons  to 

come 
With  hearts  that  are  earnest  but  lips  that  are 

dumb. 

But  hold!  what  an  elegy  /  —  some  one  I  hear  — 
Are  we  wrinkled  and  bent,  are  you   sixty  and 

sere  ? 

How  precociously  senile  you  poets  would  grow 
With  your  spinning  of  rhymes  and  your  bor 
rowing  woe! 


VIATICUM.  57 

Are  we  so  many  midges  to  die  ere  the  day 
Waxes    half -way  to  noon  ?  —  we  implore  you 

delay 
Till  your  time  comes  your    toothless,  lugubrious 

strai?is, 
Or  give  us  a  poet  with  blood  in  his  veins. 

And    the    point    is    well     taken,  our    blood 

courses  thick, 

Our  pulses  with  energy  curbless  are  quick  ; 
We  have  stomachs  whose  craving  no  carking 

care  dulls  ; 
We  have  flesh  on  our  bones   and   good  brain 

in  our  skulls  ; 
Of   talents,  the    pleasing   round    number   of 

ten; 

Aspirations  surpassing  our  own  boldest  ken. 
Our  names  shall  be  by-words  on  far  distant 

shores, 
The  blue    vault   grow   turgid    with    nations' 

applause, 

And    the  age  that    contains    our    collective 
careers 


58  VIATICUM. 

Phosphoresce  like    a  match-box  through  all 

coming  years. 
Which,  being   translated,  means  briefly  that 

we 

Are  launched  on  a  squally,  tempestuous  sea, 
Where  we  paddle    round   barks,    get   upset, 

scramble  back, 
But    never   lose  sight  of  our   course  on  the 

tack 
To  success,  which  we'll  gain,  after  long  years 

of  strife 

Unremitting  and  moist,  in  the  tub-race  of  life. 
And  ere  life  with  waiting  grows  tedious  and 

cloys, 

We  hope  to  be  blest  with  man's  coveted  toys. 
Wealth — fountain  of  power  —  we  hunger  to 

hold 

O'er  obsequious  vassals  the  sceptre  of  gold. 
Position  —  a  part  in  political  broils, 
To    stir  up  the   cauldron,  and  then  when  it 

boils 

A  pretty  loud  voice  in  dividing  the  stew, 
Not  forgetting  our  own  purely  personal  due. 


VIA  TICUM.  59 

Distinction  in  letters  —  the  craving  to  fill 
White    pages    with    spiderish    ramblings    of 

quill  — 

Our  stock  in  oblivion  that  like  ourselves 
Will   moulder   to    dust   rang'd   in    order    on 

shelves. 

And  when  all  is  over,  pall-bearers  of  note, 
Expressions  of  sorrow  got  neatly  by  rote, 
Resolutions  of  condolence  trink'd  out  with 

rhymes, 
And  a  column   at  least  in  the    Tribune  and 

Times. 

Yet,  with  all  this  before  you,  I  say  you  are  old, 
And  I  charge  you  in  frankness  be  never  cajoled 
By  your  strength  or  ambition  or  glibness  of 

tongue 
Into  thinking  your  world  is  yet  dewy  and 

young. 
Can  you  dimly  discern  through  the  deepening 

haze, 
That  purples  the  distance  and  thwarts  the 

fond  gaze, 


60  VIA  TICUM. 

That  land  than  all  others  more  verdant  and 

fair, 
Where  we  breathed  in  the  blue  of  the  sky  in 

the  air, 
Where  the  moon  winnowed  silver  on  streams  ( 

as  they  fled, 

Where  sunlight  unstinted  o'er  nature  was  shed, 
And  the  white  clouds  adrift  in  the  azure  ex 
panse 
Were  freighted  with  day-dreams  from  ports  of 

Romance  ? 

We  wandered  abroad,  sunny-hearted  estrays 
From  the  Golden  Age  fallen  on  prim,  modern 

days, 

On  pipelets  of  willow  rude-shapen  and  shrill 
Woke  music  that  erst  churlish  mortals  would 

thrill, 
When  Pan,  the  Great,  hobbled  at  large  on  the 

plain, 

And  tossed  off  a  tune  to  his  rollicking  train. 
There  pleasure  was  more  than  a  fast-fleeting 

wraith, 
We  were  wise  in  the  untutored  wisdom  of  faith; 


VIATICUM.  6 1 

We  cared  not  for  fate's  decree,  fortune's  rebuff, 
For  Life  throbbed  within  us  and   Life  was 
enough. 

In  the  world  of  our  present,  Life  dwindles, — 

its  zest 

Is  lost  in  the  breathless  and  maddening  quest 
For  baubles  that  melt  in  the  warmth   of  the 

touch, 

Eluding  yet  tempting  the  feverish  clutch. 
And  barren  the  days  that  bestow  as  they  pass 
But  blue  of  the  sky  and  the  green  of  the  grass, 
And  bring  us  not  fame,  useful  knowledge  and 

gold, 
In  greed  and  ambition  I  say  we  are  old. 

Shall  we  give  up  the  strife  then  and  seek  to 

return 
To  our  dream-world,  and,  safely  there,  quickly 

unlearn 
The  hard,  bitter    lessons    these  later  years 

taught, 
And  banish  for  aye  the  sad  burden  of  thought  ? 


62  VIA  TICUM. 

Ah  no  !  we  are  men,  and  the  land  that  we  love 
Is  as  far  from  our  reach  as  the  soft  sky  above. 
With  a  very  ill  grace  we  should  idle  away 
The  days  of  our  present  world,  playing  at  play. 
The  joys  would  be  tasteless  —  the  spirit  has 

flown 
With  the  years  that  have  past  and  the  beards 

that  have  grown. 

(Moreover  the  law  all  our  fine  ardor  damps 
With  a  stringent  decree  on   the  subject  of 

tramps.) 

But  to-night,  as  your  poet,  I  fain  would  recall 
The  life-poem  revelled  in  once  by  us  all  ; 
And  I  charge  you  keep  sacred  and  fresh  to 

the  last 
The  stay  for  life's  journey  bequeathed  from 

the  past  — 

Recollections  of  rapture  and  virginal  truth, 
That  were  ours  in  Fancy-Land,  Fairy-Land, 

Youth. 


JUAN  PONCE  DE  LEON 

AND 

BARTOLOME  DE  LAS  CASAS. 


JUAN  PONCE  DE  LEON  AND  BAR- 
TOLOME  DE  LAS  CASAS. 

(HISPANIOLA,   1512.) 
PONCE  DE  LEON. 

|OST   thou    believe   the   tidings   late 
arrived, 

"Of  Bimini  and  of  its  sparkling  fount 
Whereof  one  drinks  and  straightway  sheds 

his  aches, 

And  all  the  malady  of  being  old, 
As  in  the  holy  tale  I've  heard  at  mass, 
They  shed   their    ailments    in    the  troubled 

pool  ? 

LAS  CASAS. 

I  do  believe  it  true,  for  God  is  great 
In  our  day  as  he  was  in  Jesus  Christ's, 
And  oft  doth  send  a  wondrous  miracle 
To  waken  an  enthusiast  faith  in  men, 


66 


JUAN  PONCE   DE   LEON  AND 


Who  else  had  only  followed  close  the  Church 
In  all  her  rites,  insuring  Heaven  at  last, 
But  meanwhile  sucking  every  flower  of  earth 
For  carnal  sweets. 

PONCE  DE  LEON. 

This  day  my  search  begins. 
The  risk   is  small  — a  few  blank,  tremulous 

years 
In  which  no  peace,  but  coveting  the  past. 

LAS  CASAS. 

What  would  you  with  the  fountain  ?     It  was 

given 

To  quicken  sluggish  faith  —  a  visible  sign 
For  sensual,  purblind  souls  who  needed  one, 
And,  having  heard  this  marvel  from  His  hand, 
Say  A/i,  yes,  God  is  great,  I  had  forgot. 

PONCE  DE  LEON. 

What  would  I  with  the  fount  ?— my  faith  is 

sound, 
In  much  more  excellent  health  than  this  poor 

frame. 


BARTOLOME   DE   LAS  CASAS.  67 

I  go  to  Mass  ;  my  fat  Confessor  says 
I  make  the  cleanest  breast  of  any  one. 
I  have  been  over-virtuous  and  told 
My  sins  as  they  had  been  had  I  been  young. 
I  had  committed  them  at  least  in  heart, 
And  it  was  pleasant  to  recount  them  thus. 
But  this  frail  body  ! — why  I  cannot  drink 
A  flask  of  wine  without  a  purge  next  morn,    • 
And  lying  by  a  long,  dull  week  for  rest. 
Inez  will  take  my  coin  and  flatter  me, 
But  well  I  know  my  boy  receives  unbought 
Her    constant    tenderness,   perchance    doth 

think 

(He's  not  so  bad  —  I  would  if  I  were  he — ) 
His  sire  would  be  better  off  gone  hence, 
And  wish  that  one  could  be  both  young  and 

rich. 
Could  I  but  win  her  heart  from  him  I'd  — 

LAS  CASAS. 

Hold! 

You  seek  to  make  God's  handiwork  a  pander. 
The  sin  of  three-score  years  is  not  enough. 


68         JUAN  PONCE  DE   LEON  AND 

You  needs  must  have  a  whole  eternity 

Of  grovelling  with  the  swine.      I'll  pray  this 

night 

That  you  may  find  the  ocean's  slimy  bed, 
Or  bleach  with  orbless  sockets  on  the  sun 
Upturned,  'ere  you  may  see  the  fount  of 

youth. 

PONCE  DE  LEON. 

Forgive  me,  father  ;  pray  not  thus  I  beg  ; 
Forgive  an  old  man's  rambling  tongue  that 

aye 

Was  lewder  than  himself.     Behold  this  arm 
That  now  I  scarce  can  strain  above  my  head; 
Once  I  could  grasp  a  lithe  Toledo  blade, 
And,  whirling  it  in  sport  with  dazzling  speed, 
Clothe  me  in  haloed  lightning.     I  would  play, 
Disguised  like  all  the  rest,  the  matador, 
For  love  of  risk  that  still  was  never  danger. 
The  brute  would  corner  me  and  gore  the  air, 
And  feel  my  rapier  searching  'twixt  his  ribs. 
Then  I  could  swim  a  league  in  mad  delight, 
The  water  boxed  me  in  its  vixen  mirth, 


BARTOLOMZ   DE   LAS  CASAS.         69 

And  hugged  me  with  a  woman's  wantoning. 
Ah,  life  was  worth  the  living  till  I  turned 
Some  two-score  years,  then  it  began  to  seem 
As  if  my  day  were  over,  but  I  still 
Must  stay  to  tell    old    tales  and    bear    dull 

jibes. 

If  death  were  but  a  sleep  and  I  could  have 
In  everlasting  dream  my  vanished  youth, 
I'd  quit  realities  and  seek  the  dream. 

LAS  CASAS. 

Thy  fleshly  soul  is  groping  towards  the  light. 
Thou  mayst  have  youth  through  all  eternity, 
Not  as  a  vague,  unsatisfying  dream, 
But  as  a  live  reality  with  God. 

PONCE  DE  LEON. 

Yea,  I  would  have  the  live  reality. 
I  dream  my  youth  o'er  often  now  at  night, 
But  ever  there  is  something  that  withholds 
Just  at  the  last  the  sweets  I  fain  would  grasp. 
I  beg  thy  prayers  that  I  may  find  the  fount 
That  giveth  youth,  not  torturing  dreams  of  it. 


7°         JUAN  PONCE   DE  LEON  AND 

LAS  CASAS. 

I'll  pray  for  thee  that   God   may  cause  the 

earth 

To  swallow  up  the  fount  He  summoned  forth, 
And  there  may  raise  in  sacred  effigy 
His  own  Son  bleeding  on  the  holy  cross. 

PONCE  DE  LEON. 

O  pray  not  so  !  wouldst  arrogate  to  be 
Wiser  than  God  on  what  is  best  for  man  ; 
He  did  create  it  and  shalt  thou  gainsay  ? 

LAS  CASAS. 

How  earthy  blind  thou  art,  as  blind  as  he 
Who  holdeth  close  his  eye  a  paltry  coin 
And  doth  shut  out  the  very  sun  of  Heaven  ! 
Tear  from  thy  spirit's  eye  the  fleshly  lust 
That  hides  eternity.     Come  thou  with  me  ! 
This  hour  shalt  thou  find  immortal  youth  ; 
Thou  shalt  be  holy  —  holiness  is  youth, 
The  being  like  to  God  who  changeth  not— - 


BAKTOLOME  DE  LAS  CASAS.       71 

And  thou  shalt  join,  e'en  here  on  earth,  the 

throng 

Of  angels  young  from  all  eternity, 
And  saints  gone  hence  whose  youth  hath  been 

restored. 

Plainer  than  spoken  words,  within  thy  heart 
Their  prompting  shall  inspire  to  noble  deeds, 
And  by  a  thousand  unmistaking  signs 
Their  guarding  presence  shall  be  manifest. 
Come  thou   with  me  !    thy  few  short  years 

below 
Thou   shalt   pass   toiling  for  these    heathen 

souls 
Who  ne'er  have  heard  of  Him  who  died  for 

them. 
Thou  shalt  hav,e  youth  immortal   and   sweet 

rest 
And  never  wish  the  fever  back. 

Thou  wilt  ? 

PONCE  DE  LEON. 

I  am  a  man  of  arms,  a  worldling  born  ; 
In  battle  I  have  slain  a  hundred  Moors  ; 


7 2         JUAN  PONCE  DE  LEON  AND 

I  should  go  mad  within  your  brotherhood. 

0  father,  pray  that  I  may  be  restored 

To   beauty,  strength   and    hope   and   I    will 

make 
Most  ample  recompense  to  thee  and  God. 

1  will  be  valiant  for  all  time  on  earth 
Against  the  heretics  ;  not  one  of  them 
My  vigilance  and  vengeance  shall  escape  ; 
With  fire  and  sword  I'll  purge  them    from 

God's  sight, 
And  hold  the  world  forever  true  to  Him. 

LAS  CASAS. 

I'll  pray  for  thee,  thou  poor,  misguided  one  ! 
Knowest  what  thou  dost  ask  so  fervently  ? 
To  be  shut  out  for  aye  from  Paradise, 
And  wallow  here  below  in  blood  and  lust  ? 
Never  to  sit  white  robed  at  God's  feet  ? 
Ne'er  to  behold  sweet   Mary  Mother's   face  ? 
Never  to  walk  with  Christ  in  holy  bliss? 
Ne'er   to   reach    sainthood   and  be    pure  in 
heart  ? 


BARTOLOME  DE  LAS  CASAS.        73 

Thou  canst  not  bribe  me  with  the  heretics, 
Ponce  de  Leon,  I  will  pray  for  thee  ! 

PONCE  DE  LEON. 

Pray  not  !    I  read  thy  meaning  in  thine  eyes. 
Thou 'It  pray  that  I  may  search  within  a  span, 
Yet  never  find  the  fountain  of  glad  youth. 
Father,  forget  that  I  have  asked  aught, 
Forget  me  and  pray  not  ! 

LAS  CASAS. 

I'll  pray  for  thee. 


SONNETS. 


ttA  7"URE.  7  7 


NATURE. 

[HE   Parcae  stern   who  cowed   the 

world  in  awe, 
When  Thought  was  young  and 

Art  was  in  its  bloom, 
Though  Paganism  fills  a  classic  tomb, 
Rule  modern  Christians  as  the  men  of  yore. 
Hoping  to  master  Fate  in  prudent  law, 
We  toil  and  plot  and  close  our  eyes  to  doom, 
Or  seek  to  guard  against  impending  gloom, 
Devoutly  nailing  horse-shoes  to  the  door. 

And  all  is  vain.     Some  sit  in  stoic  calm. 

Callous  to  ills  that  cruel  fortune  wreaks  ; 
Some,  with  Promethean  heart  and  Titan  arm, 
Curse    and    defy    the     bristling    vulture- 
beaks  ; 

And  some  would  find  an  anaesthetic  balm, 
Thy  will  be   done   their    upward  gaze    be 
speaks. 


HELEN  Ot    T 


HELEN  OF  TROY. 

|S  it  a  joy  to  live  for  aye  in  song  ? 
Uost  thou  with  thirst  that  glory' 

ne'er  can  sate, 
Upon  the  dark  flood's  thither  margin  wait, 
To  hear  one  poet  more  thy  reign  prolong  ? 
Or  dost  contemn  the  worshippers  who  throng, 
And  curse  thy  Nemesis  far-eyed  —  the  fate 
That    doomed    through    thee  to  lay  earth 

desolate, 

And  would   not   let  thy  name  die  with   the 
wrong  ? 

Remorse  ne'er  bowed  that  head  of  wondrous 

gold 

Erect,  defiant  of  immortal  shame. 
But  art  so  weary,  of  thy  tale  oft  told  ; 

Of  man's  idolatry  and  woman's  blame  ; 
Thou  would'st  been  born  a  beldame  crook'd 

and  cold 
To  have  been  spared  eterne  ennui  of  fame  ? 


LOVED  EVEN    YET.  79 


LOVED    EVEN   YET. 


JORGIVE  thou    wilt,  dear   Love,  but 

O  forget 
The  mood  estranged,  the  cruel  shock 

and  pain, 

The  bitter,  jealous  words  of  lips  insane, 
Whose  wounds,  beyond    the    heal    of   keen 

regret, 
Those  brown    eyes   with  a  dewy    trembling 

wet. 
Thou  wilt  forgive,  nay,  more,  wilt  search  in 

vain 

On  thy  pure  loyalty  for  speck  of  stain, 
And,  crushed  by  love's    requite,   love    even 
yet. 


o  LOVED  EVEN    YET. 

Darling,  a  love  as  thine  so  true  and  good, 
For  its   own    chosen    one   a   shrine    must 

build  ; 
Know  not  too  well  this  heart,  its  idolhood 

Unworthy,  with  unfaith  ignoble  filled  ; 
Nor    wake  —  I    still    that    presence    bright 

would  seem, 
Wrapped  in  the  aureole  of  tender  dream. 


AFTER   SICKNESS. 


AFTER  SICKNESS. 

DRIFTED    out    upon    the    un 
known  deep, 
That   hems   our  being   round  on 

every  side, 
And   thou  with    tearful  hope  a  breeze  did 

bide 
From   Heaven   to  bear  me  homeward  to  thy 

keep. 
My  thoughts  were  as  the  dreams  of  troubled 

sleep, 

My  visions  blurred  as  stars  upon  the  tide  ; 
But  o'er  the  narrow  stretch  that  seemed  so 

wide 
I  saw  a  lonely  watcher  wait  and  weep. 

What  if  the   breeze  had    drawn  from  off  this 

shore, 

I  would  have  wandered  back  from  yonder 
coast ; 


82  AFTER   SICKNESS. 

Would'st  them  have  ta'en    me   to  thy  heart 

once  more, 
Or,  horror  !  would'st  thou  not  have   known 

and  fled, 
As    blooming    Life  aye  shrinkest   from  the 

dead, 
Not  cried  'tis  thou,  but  said  alas  /  poor  ghost? 


A     YEAR.  83 

A   YEAR. 

NO    has  a  year  gone  ;  this   again 

the  snow  ? 

Tis   vain   to   summon    recollec 
tions  dim  ; 
Visions    as  vague    as    August  landscapes 

swim, 

Of  Spring  that  came  and  set  the  world  aglow, 

Of  Summer's  cloudless  blue  and  green  below, 

And  Autumn's  purple  robe,  — again  the  rim 

Of  Winter's  ermine  fringes  every  limb  — 

'Tis  but  a  dream  that  time  doth  onward  flow. 

Ah  love !    doth    stealthy   Time    purloin    our 

years, 

By  making  them  like  blissful  phantoms  fly, 
To  pay  them  back  in  usury  of  tears, 

And  leaden  sorrow  of  reality, 
When  one  of  us  in  waking  anguish  hears 
The  other's  dream-farewell  ? 

God  grant  not  I  ! 


84 


EMERSON, 


EMERSON. 

thee    the    prayer    of    all    was 
granted  —  Light  ! 
Thou     hast      felt      life-warmth 

through  the  age's  rime, 
Hast  pierced  the  mask  of    flesh,  the  veil 

of  time, 
That   heart   from  heart  and  soul  from   soul 

benight. 

And  whoso  kens  thy  word  to  man  aright 
Finds  in  the  world  a  spiritual  clime, 
Beholds  the  Present  as  a  land  sublime, 
Peopled  with  beings  of  heroic  height. 

To  eras  gone  their  prophet-seers  have  brought 
God's  new-born  truth  to  feed  a  hungering 

race  ; 
And  thou,  like   those  of  old,  hast  read    His 

thought 


EMERSON.  85 

Writ   in   the    stars   by   night  ; — His  secret 

place, 

The  solemn  forest,  thou  by  day  hast  sought, 
And  heard   His  voice  through  boughs  that 
hid  His  face. 


86 


LONGFELLOW. 


LONGFELLOW. 

GENTLE    minstrel  !      songs    of 

thine  can  start 
In  eyes  of  stony  calm  the  boon  of 

tears  ; 
The  thoughts  that  swell  the  current  of  the 

years 

Vex  not  the  placid  sweetness  of  thine  art  ; 
But  whoso  goeth  from  the  fray  apart 

To    weep    away  his   wounds,  while    in    his 

ears 

Still  rankle  cruel  taunts  and  sullen  sneers, 
Will  bless  thee  —  healer  of  the  bruised  heart  ! 

The  clamorous  day  heeds  not  thy  plaintive 

notes, 

But  when  the  night  with  wand  of  darkness 
stills 


LONGFELLOW.  $7 

The  strife    of  bustling    hands    and    blatant 

throats, 
And    twilight's    last    gray  lingers   on  the 

hills, 

Then  through  my  reverie  thy  music  floats, 
As  through  the  dusk  the  song  of  whip-poor- 
wills. 


BRYANT. 
BRYANT. 

HE  forest  anthem  from  green  choirs 

of  trees 
Was    ever     in     his    ears  ; —  the 

woodland  brooks, 
Prattling  like  children  through  dim,  mossy 

nooks, 

Were  eloquent  of  sacred  mysteries. 
A  bard  who  sang  afar  from  haunts  of  man  ! 
(Man's  heart  is  cankerous  with  greed  and 

lust.) 

And  he  forgot  life's  sordid  age  and  rust, 
Where  earth   is  young  as    when  Time   first 
began. 

The  poet  with  a  sympathizing  care, 

Enshrined  the  bloom  of  nature  in  his  art, 
And  sent   it  forth  to  glad   the  breathless 

mart  : 
Here   mid  the   noonday  turmoil   of  the 

streets, 
His  opened  volume  sheds  upon  the  air 

The  piny  fragrance  of  those  cool  retreats. 


Z' ENVOI. 


L  ENVOI, 

(TO   THE   MUSE.) 

[HIS  is  the  record  of  our  secret  joy, 
The  stolen  hours  when  we  love- 
vigils  kept 
While  'neath  the  stars  the  earth   in  silence 

slept. 

Thou  art  a  mistress  warm  of   heart  but  coy, 

And  for  the  few  hours  spent  in  sweet  employ 

When  over   waters  hush'd   the   moonlight 

crept, 
I  have  through  lonely  nights  thine  absence 

wept 

Whose  constant  love  and  beauty  ne'er  could 
cloy. 


9° 


L'EttfOf. 


I  cannot  flee  the  haunts  of  toil  and  wealth, 
Choose  poverty  and  follow  thee  alone, 

I  still  must  chaffer  in  the  market-place. 
And  wilt  thou  yet  with  love's  delicious  stealth 
Grant  sweet  tryst  of   the  cynic  world   un 

known, 

And  soothe  me  with  thy  tender,  dream 
ful  face? 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


